At first, you believed you were dreaming.
That this weightless awareness, this strange clarity without sensation, was the mind's final trick before death. You tried to recall pain—there should have been pain—but memory stopped just before it arrived.
Instead, there was stillness.
Not the peaceful kind.The kind that presses against you, waiting for you to notice it.
You reached for breath out of instinct.
Nothing happened.
No chest rose. No air entered. Panic surged—sharp, immediate—but even panic felt distant, diluted, as if it belonged to someone else.
Move, you thought.
You tried to lift your hand.
There was no hand.
The realization did not arrive all at once. It came in fragments—small, horrifying absences. No fingers. No skin. No heartbeat. You searched for your body and found only a long, narrow awareness, stretched and unyielding.
Cold.
Smooth.
Unmoving.
You were lying on stone.
No—resting on it.
Stone pressed against your side in a way that was far too even, far too perfect. You felt every grain of dust, every faint vibration in the cave, not through nerves but through contact—direct, intimate.
That was when you understood.
You were not holding the sword.
You were the sword.
Time passed—or perhaps it didn't. Without a body, without hunger or sleep, moments blurred into one another. The cave revealed itself slowly, not through sight, but through awareness.
The air was ancient. Thick with the smell of minerals and old prayers. Symbols carved into the walls pulsed faintly, reacting to your presence like embers beneath ash. You did not know their language, yet you understood their purpose.
Seals.
You were sealed here.
Your blade—yourself—was embedded halfway into a stone altar, as if the world had decided this was where you belonged. The hilt faced upward, wrapped in leather that had never decayed. The metal of your blade was unblemished, reflecting light that did not exist.
A sacred cave.
A prison disguised as reverence.
You wanted to laugh at the irony. A collector who became the final exhibit.
How long have I been here? you wondered.
The cave answered with silence.
Footsteps eventually came.
The first ones startled you so badly that your awareness flared, instinctively pulling inward. Shadows moved across the cave walls. A man entered—armored, breathing heavily, torch in hand.
He saw you immediately.
His breath caught.
"A relic…" he whispered.
His hands shook as he approached, greed and fear tangled together in his gaze. When his fingers brushed your hilt, something unpleasant crawled through you—an invasive presence, loud and demanding.
Power, his soul screamed.
You rejected him without meaning to.
The runes flared. The air thickened. His hand recoiled as if burned.
He fled moments later, shouting prayers as he stumbled out of the cave.
You were alone again.
That was the first.
Others followed.
A priestess who knelt and begged.A mercenary who cursed when you did not respond.A scholar who tried to measure you, classify you, name you.
None of them listened.
They wanted you to do something.
You remained silent.
It took many visits before you realized the truth.
You were choosing.
Not consciously, not with intent—but something within you responded to those who touched you. You could feel them the way you once felt steel: their balance, their flaws, the weight of their desires.
Those who sought domination felt heavy, warped.
Those who sought glory rang hollow.
You did not want them.
And so centuries passed.
You learned patience the way stone learns erosion—not by effort, but by endurance. Thoughts became quieter. Memories dulled at the edges. Your past life felt less real than the cave itself.
Sometimes, you feared forgetting entirely.
If I forget who I was, you thought, what am I then?
A weapon?
No.
You refused that.
She arrived without announcement.
No torch. No armor. Just the sound of tired footsteps and uneven breathing. She did not step into the cave with confidence, nor with reverence.
She stopped at the entrance.
"You don't have to answer," she said softly, her voice barely disturbing the air. "I just needed somewhere quiet."
She sat down.
Not in front of the altar. Not near you. Just against the stone wall, knees drawn to her chest. Her presence was… small. Not weak—simply unassuming, like a thought not meant to be heard.
Minutes passed.
Then more.
She did not look at you.
"I was told there was a weapon here," she continued, almost apologetically. "But I don't think I'm supposed to take it."
Your awareness stirred.
For the first time in centuries, you leaned outward.
She finally turned her head, eyes meeting the faint reflection of your blade. There was no hunger in them. No awe.
Only curiosity—and something quieter.
Loneliness.
She stood slowly and approached, every step careful, as if afraid of disturbing the cave itself. When her fingers wrapped around your hilt, there was no demand.
Just contact.
Just listening.
Something inside you unlocked.
Not power.
Understanding.
Images surfaced—your collection, your hands polishing steel, the way you once believed weapons carried stories. She gasped softly as fragments of your memories brushed against hers.
"You remember," she whispered.
And for the first time since you died—
You answered.